


Yours (as much as you are his)

by isuilde



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, How the fuck do you tag this lmfao, M/M, Second-Person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9247220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Chris never remembers your name.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written because I thought it'd be funny if no one remembers the Mystery Man's name because Chris never remembers his boyfriend's name and therefore never introduces him by name so how was the rest of the world supposed to know his name, right. And then it turned into random headcanons and so this fic is really just an overview of those headcanons and an excuse to write them down.
> 
> Also someone said Mystery Man might be Chris' choreographer since he got to sit with him in GPF kiss-and-cry, and I thought that was brilliant.
> 
> (Mystery Man what is your name)

Chris never remembers your name.

Looking back, you think, if you had noticed this before you grew too used to the fond exasperation that swamps you when it comes to Chris’ ridiculous quirks, you’d probably get mad and walk away from this relationship before it could even settle. And wouldn’t that be a huge waste, because then you wouldn’t know this happiness and satisfaction in life—but that’s another story completely.

To be fair, it isn’t like you told Chris your name, the first time you slept together. Hell, you hadn’t even realized it was him at first. That corner of the club was dark, you were both pleasantly buzzed by alcohol if not half-drunk, and it had been all hurried heat and pleasure that ended far too quickly, except then you actually took a good look at the gorgeous being who had just let you blow him, and realized with a start, _holy shit, it’s Christophe Giacometti_.

“Sugar,” was the first thing Chris said to you, a sinful tongue licking the corner of his lips. “Come up here if you want me to return the favor.”

You hadn’t told Chris who you were, at the time. Not your name, not the fact that you worked as a choreographer for a rather well-known ballet school, or the fact that you were a huge fan of Victor Nikiforov as well, but had always thought Chris’ skating as an embodiment of the Temptress. The occasional meeting at the club turned into friendly meet-ups at the bar, and more often than not Chris would take you back home and the both of you would spend the night fucking. Chris being Chris, of course, called you a variety of nicknames— _Sugar_ , was the most often used, or _Honey, Baby, Pumpkin,_ and a bunch others that you’d lost count of—and you never minded because that was just how Chris was, wasn’t it?

Somewhere along the way, you’d gotten too fond to Chris’ quirks and the feeling of silently apologizing to the world whenever Chris does something particularly embarrassing in public, and somehow you’d managed to progress into having an actual romantic, long-term relationship in which Chris basically stole your cat. Then he stole your whole life, too, when he found out that you worked as a choreographer, by drawing you a lifetime contract as his choreographer, except he stopped in the middle of it and said, thoughtfully, “that’s funny, I almost wrote your name as Bab—wait, huh.” He looked at you, like he’d just realized that the Earth is round after all. “Huh. I still don’t know what your name is.”

Really, what else could you say other than a soft, defeated-sounding, “I can’t believe you, Chris.”

**\-----o0o-----**

Chris never remembers your name.

He claims that it’s because your name is one of those extremely common names used in the western part of the world. You think you should be offended, but it really just adds to the list of Things Chris Does that exasperates him at worst. Besides, even if Chris remembers your name, you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t stop calling you those silly affectionate nicknames you’d gotten frighteningly too used to, so you suppose that’s okay.

The only drawbacks to it is perhaps when Chris introduces you to his friends and colleagues, it’s always with a smile around three words, “Meet my boyfriend.”

“That’s adorable,” Phichit tells you in the banquet after GPF, watching Chris sashay his way across the room, presumably to spike the punch and make Yuuri Katsuki drunk enough to repeat last year’s pole-dancing fiasco. You’re not quite sure if he’s serious about that. “The forever flirty Chris is actually so possessive over his boyfriend!”

You stare at Phichit uncomprehendingly—honestly, millennials confuse you so much sometimes. “Possessive?”

“He never introduces you by your name to anyone, he just always says, _‘hey, meet my boyfriend.’_ ” Phichit’s rendition of Chris’ voice is scarily alike the original. “That’s basically drawing a line and saying you’re his territory, right?”

You wonder if it’d be rude to burst the young man’s romantic bubble and tell him the truth that no, it has nothing to do with being possessive, Chris just can’t remember your name.

Besides, no matter how many times you tell people your name with another smile, it’s the title that sticks with them the most. _Chris’ boyfriend_ , they would call, and you almost surprise yourself to find out that you don’t mind it at all—you love the implication of belonging to Christophe Giacometti, world-renowned figure skater, Victor Nikiforov’s fan and best friend, literally dripping sex wherever he went.

**\-----o0o-----**

After unraveling Chris in-between sheets for the night, you usually don’t stay for the afterglow.

Chris pouts about it, all the time. He never pulls you back into the layers of blankets, nonetheless, because he knows that this is the best time for you to work: when Chris’ skin still glistens with both sweat and remnants of sex, when the echoes of his sighs still cling to your ear, when the dim light of his bedside table still highlights the curves and lines of his hips. He is your muse, endless waves of inspiration, and every single time you finish exploring him, your fingers always itch for your sketchbook.

So you leave him in favor of transferring the images in your mind onto papers, into possible ideas and concepts for Chris’ next program, and Chris cuddles up with the cat instead.

There’s some sort of odd smugness that follows the lines of sketches you make as you work—Chris’ skating is about tension and heat, pleasure and temptation, and translating them into something tangible fills you with a sort of thrill. It’s almost as if you could tell the world through the choreography: look at this gorgeous being, look how he’s made of seduction and enticement, look at how he embodies the very meaning of _desire_. It’s undeniably addictive, realizing that you alone have the power to make him come, both in a darkened bedroom and on ice, under the gaze of the world. That your choreography could take Chris into the highest form of pleasure, and how the world could only watch in awe, but not touch.

Christophe Giacometti is yours in all the ways you are his.

It’s three in the morning when Chris finally drapes himself over your shoulder, teeth teasing the juncture of your neck and collarbone. “Come back to bed, Sugar,” he murmurs, low and all liquid heat, and it should be ridiculous, but it’s also Chris, and you shudder instead.

**\-----o0o-----**

In-between kisses and delicious gasps, you say with a laugh, “They say you’re adorable.”

“Blasphemy,” Chris rejects, looking genuinely offended. You steal the last of his moan from the corner of his lips, roll it in your tongue, relishing the taste. “I am nothing but fire and heat and sex on legs, and anyone who says otherwise is clearly blind.”

Once, you would have rolled your eyes at such statement. Now, it makes you smile with fondness. “You made sure everyone knows that. All the time.”

“It’s what I’m born for,” Chris laughs, fingers skittering down the line of your hip, finding your ass and squeezing them playfully, causing you to bite down on a gasp. “And as you know this better than anyone, you should be contradicting that rumor.”

“Mmm,” you lean down, press your lips against the line of Chris jaw, teeth worrying a line up to his ear. “I think Phichit might have started it. He said something about you being possessive.”

“Ah,” Chris grins. “Because I keep introducing you to people as my boyfriend?”

This time, it’s impossible for you not to roll your eyes. “That’s just because you never remember my name.”

“Aw, Baby, that’s not true,” Chris’ lips makes a perfect curve when he teases. “Of course I remember your name.”

You know he lies. You raise an eyebrow anyway, because that deserves a challenge. “Really? What’s my name, then?”

And Chris chooses to distract you with a kiss.

Just as expected.

**\-----o0o----**


End file.
